Poems of the Heart and Home — Text and Context

Gorgeous was every hill-side, And gorgeous every nook, And the dry, old log was gorgeous, Spanning the little brook; Its holiday robes, the forest Had suddenly cast to earth, And, as yet, seemed scarce to miss, them, In its plenitude of mirth.

I walked where the leaves the softest, The brightest, and goldenest lay, And I thought of a forest hill-side, And an Indian Summer day,-- Of an eager, little child-face O'er the fallen leaves that bent, As she gathered her cup of beech nuts, With innocent content.

I thought of the small, brown fingers Gleaning them one by one, With the partridge drumming near her In the forest bare and dun, And the jet-black squirrel, winking His saucy, jealous eye At those tiny, pilfering fingers, From his sly nook up on high

Ah, barefooted little maiden With thy bonnetless, sun-burnt brow, Thou glean'st no more on the hill-side-- Where art thou gleaning now? I knew by the lifted glances Of thy dark, imperious eye, That the tall trees bending o'er thee Would not shelter thee by and by.

The cottage by the brookside, With its mossy roof is gone;-- The cattle have left the uplands, The young lambs left the lawn;-- Gone are thy blue-eyed sister, And thy brother's laughing brow; And the beech-nuts He ungathered On the lonely hill-side now.

What have the returning seasons Brought to thy heart since then, In thy long and weary wand'rings In the paths of busy men?-- Has the Angel of grief, or of gladness, Set his seal upon thy brow? Maiden, joyous or tearful, Where art thou gleaning now?

Up from the spirit-depths ringing, Softly your melody swells, Sweet as a seraphim's singing, Tender-toned memory-bells! The laughter of childhood, The song of the wildwood, The tinkle of streams through the echoing dell, The voice of a mother, The shout of a brother. Up from life's morning melodiously swell.

Up from the spirit-depths ringing Richly your melody swells, Sweet reminiscences bringing, Joyous-toned memory-bells!-- Youth's beautiful bowers, Her dew-spangled flowers, The pictures which Hope of futurity drew,-- Love's rapturous vision Of regions Elysian, In glowing perspective unfolding to view.

Up from the spirit-depths ringing, Sadly your melody swells, Tears with its mournful tones bringing, Sorrowful memory-bells! The first heart-link broken, The first farewell spoken, The first flow'ret crushed in life's desolate track,-- The agonized yearning O'er joys unreturning, All, all with your low, wailing music come back.

Up from the spirit-depths ringing. Dirge-like your melody swells; But Hope wipes the tears that are springing, Mournful-toned memory-bells! Above your deep knelling Her soft voice is swelling, Sweeter than angel-tones, silvery clear, Singing:--in Heaven above, All is unchanging love, Mourner, look upward, thy home is not here!

I will not despair while thou rulest the storm, Though the red lightning stream o'er the cloud's sable-breast, For I catch through the darkness bright gleams of thy form, And I know 'tis thy voice lulls the tempest to rest-- The wild tempest to rest: Nor yet, though the shadows of deepening night, Hang over my path like the pall of despair; For one star through the gloom sends its hallowed light, And I know 'tis thy love smiling tenderly there, --Ah! tenderly there.

I will not despair, though the fountain that burst For me in life's desert be wasted and dry; For thy love was the fountain that cheered me at first, And again to its life-giving waters I fly-- O Holiest, fly! No; I will not despair while thy hand points me on, Though flowerless and thorny the path where I roam. For a calm sunlight rests on the far hills beyond, And I know 'tis the radiance that streams from my home, --Home, beautiful home!

A PEN PICTURE FROM THE OLD TESTAMENT.

Upon the plain of Dura stood an image great and high, With golden forehead broad and bright beneath the morning sky; All regal in its majesty and kingly in its mien, The grandest and most glorious thing the world had ever seen!

Full sixty cubits high in air the lordly head was reared, And robed in gold from head to foot the stately form appeared; Adown the breast six cubits broad, a flood of yellow gold, All deftly wrought with matchless skill, its shining tresses rolled.

And, fronting thus the rising sun, it sent back ray for ray-- A golden flood of arrowy light--into the face of day; While round its feet, in awe and dread, all Shinar stood amazed, And up into that radiant face with reverent wonder gazed.